Tag Archives: poetry

New Friend – Heaven is a Party

“Life is just a party and parties weren’t meant to last.”

Heaven is a party with all your favorite people.
Heaven is being so overwhelmed with greetings,
That you don’t know where to begin.
Heaven is engaging a familiar face in conversation,
And making plans to see them again.
Heaven is a party with phenomenal seating,
Because every seat is next to a friend,
And in heaven every moment is regal,
Because we all share the same vocation.

Heaven is a party where everyone laughs at your jokes.
Heaven is a game of fetch with the family dog;
A break from the people you love the most.
Heaven is a party with plenty of beer,
And every cup is filled to the brim.
Heaven is a party that leaves attendees agog,
And husbands untethered,
Because they got to stay until the end.

The party is over – Actually, it’s on hiatus. The Secret Diary of Your New Friend will return January.

Giovanni Kavota

Baby Hermits on Board

I let my tape player slowly die –

I no longer care to hear

The creaky faded craft that whine

Over the last filamentary gasps

Of wavelengths crusty and veteran . . .


They’ll soon be gone anyway;

Those chronic misfits who feed the machines,

Their body parts so chemical and divided –

Strewn across metropolises in mailboxes,

In old socks, rolled up and stuck

Behind beds of the semaphore newsboys,

Who wake up in malted mornings,

And go out and hawk the Daily Progress

of devourment;

of whole human vortexes sucked down . . .

They are the fuel . . .


Of the stalkers of scenes

And the shufflers of mounds

And the shredders of composite tiny lives –

All of the worms so pleased to feast

On swarms of leathern wonderbread limbs,

Which, decapitated and expelled,

Still kick and squirm.


Stirring up the moldy heirlooms,

Flinging the scrappy clippings

From nests of myriad hermit crabs

Grown meek from the green salty steroids


And caked with powdered Cains,

And sprinkled with Christmas locust leavening,

And sick from lucite cage wishes,

Or blinded by smarmy sunlight showdowns,

Or shivering in misty mackerel moonbeams . . .


Yea, these are the slowly slaughtered babies,

Also known as the hermit crabs,

So adapted, so sadly adapted

To this alien Netherworld,

Yet dying to crave to be tucked away

In the folds at the bottom of the sea


– Damon Norko

Baby Hermits on Board was originally published in The Annual #4!

The Lover

Damon Norko

I sleep with ten pillows

(I could do more)

I stack them at night

Into one giant pile.


Burrow through to tomorrow,

I have them to hold;

But then I crush them

Like I’m stealing their souls –


Lifeless they yield –

They fit to my form

And though I am buried,

I still clutch for more.


In a landscape of nightmares,

I demolish them all!

They’re helplessly slaughtered

At Dawn – on the floor.


Save one little pillow

Onto which my head lies –

This is a basin

Into which my love drains.

Love Lines

A red rainbow spurts –
out from the crying clouds –
and with the drab contemplation
of a period of rainy days –
I think how hard it must be –
to be alone with endless pads –
of paper in that life’s house –
watching flies die and thinking –
how it is to die – and I –
see your wispy smile and imagine my
cherry tongue slip inside –
those grim horizontal parentheses –
as a dying soldier plants his flagpole
on conquered ambivalent ground –
and I know now that I –
I want to fuck you,
Emily Dickinson.

Like the virgin TS Eliot finally –
coming in our twenties – I
want to make that wasteland real –
tear through that sad, antique veil –
clasp my thumbs on trembling thighs –
penetrate that semi colon;
spray that empty crypt –
with epic, soaring riffs –
blast on past the torch-lit milestones –
back on through the modern times –
with the bearers looking on, like
Williams, Stevens, Wright —
winking, grinning, nodding “Go!”
now I want everyone to know –
I want to – fuck you, Emily –

No question mark – it’s real –
for I know just how you feel –
You’re Mona Lisa, Gertrude Stein
You are all a ‘twain of minds,
like the blackbirds flying forever
widening circles ‘round the lines –
I will push the rhymes in rhythm
thrusting apostrophic grunts –
filling up that spinster pool –
tearing off those virgin blinds –
impaling on delicious plums –
panting hard – taking breath –
thinking of death.

I will labor to savor that
somber slit of smile –
called forth from
dead leaves wet with rain –
lit up by the red rainbow
sliding down from yonder sky –
merging deep inside –
the sad souls uncontrolled –
I love your mind –
and precious dashing lines – they are,
indeed, just like mine,
I want to –
fuck you –
Emily Dickinson.

Damon Norko

Love Lines appeared in The Annual #001 which can be purchased here.

The Annual: Accepting submissions for #002

In striving to publish 5 reader submissions per issue The Annual is now accepting pieces for our second issue. 

These submissions can be ANYTHING! Comic strips, prose, poetry, whatever tickles your fancy. Send whatever you’ve got to:


We’ll give it a read, and if it tickles our fancy it may just be published in our next issue!

Writers are not paid for their submissions but will receive a free copy of the issue should their piece(s) be chosen.

The Annual: Now accepting submissions!

As promised in our kickstarter campaign, The Annual will be printing 5 submissions per issue!

These submissions can be ANYTHING! Comic strips, prose, poetry, whatever tickles your fancy. So send in whatever you’ve got to:


We’ll give it a read, and if it tickles our fancy it may just be published in our first issue!